


The Domesticity Quintet

by copperbadge



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domesticity, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Seduction, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-28
Updated: 2003-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Stories about the domestic life of His Grace, His Excellency, The Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes (blackboard monitor).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dinner at Sarnoff's

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of five stories originally posted separately.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Version one of how the proposal might have gone...

Sam Vimes was not, by and large, the most sensitive man in the world. You didn't get many sensitive men in the Watch, at least, not for long; if they survived, they very quickly became just as hard-boiled as the next officer, provided that the next officer was not Carrot Ironfoundersson, who had still not been broken to the culture of cynicism that the Watch fostered. 

He was also not terribly well-educated when it came to Women. He knew how to handle one who was running at you with a knife or an upraised frying pan, because he'd been the mediator of many a domestic dispute, but this is not an ideal position from which to learn the gentle art of romance. He'd, well, he'd had some experience, it was true, but not extensively so. The longest relationship he'd had lately was with Bearhugger's distillery. 

Up until Sybil Ramkin, at any rate. 

And he might not be sensitive or romantic or very well-experienced but he was a copper, and he did know Sybil relatively well. How long had it been -- nearly a year? A year of good solid meals at the mansion on Scoone Avenue, and morning walks, and occasional singed eyebrows when Sybil convinced him to help her out in the dragon house. A year of making game effort to kick the bottle, because it bothered her. 

So he began to notice things.

Sybil'd been nervous. Sybil, who was well-bred and calm and sensible and had not even _flinched_ when a dragon tried to eat her. He chalked it up to the impending Best Of Breed show in Quirm, where she was going to be unveiling an entirely new type of swamp dragon, until other signs started to appear that began to make _him_ nervous.

She redecorated several of the closed-off rooms in the old mansion. She seemed to spend a lot less time in the dragon house. One of the Interchangeable Emmas* had told him that she was in the library a lot, reading books on etiquette. And these days, all of them giggled whenever they saw him, which is a terrible thing for a man to experience on a weekly basis.

* He suspected her actual name was Sara, but she answered to either, so apparently they'd all come to understand his inability to keep track. 

But it wasn't as though he could round up witnesses or, gods forbid, look for Clues. He couldn't very well interrogate his, well, yes, his girlfriend. He'd thought about asking Colon or possibly young Carrot for advice, but the idea of even trying to put his anxiety into words left him cold.

It would almost be a relief when Sybil went off to Quirm. Not that he wanted her to go, he was quite sure he'd miss her, but perhaps when she came back she'd be back to normal, dependable Sybil. Sybil with an edge was as disturbing as Vetinari without one. 

"You're all packed, then?" he asked, as the walked along King's Way. Sybil'd had to stop in at a friend's and ask them to keep an eye on the dragons, since she couldn't take _all_ of them and Sam was liable to use them as lighters and forget to feed them. He'd offered to walk her back to the mansion, as he always did if she stopped by the Yard to say hello, and she'd agreed, as she always did when he offered. 

"Almost. I've got to make sure we're bringing along enough coal," she said absently. "They don't like strange food, you know. And I'm sure the coal in Quirm isn't as pure as it is here."

"Ankh-Morpork, first in filth," he said brightly. "Nice to know we're good at something."

"Yes, dear."

He shot her a sidelong glance. "That's my line, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

"Sybil, are you all right?"

"Oh, yes," she said with a bright smile. "Just fine, Sam. Why?"

"Dunno, you seem distracted."

"That reminds me! We're having dinner tomorrow night, at Sarnoff's."

He'd missed how exactly she'd got from 'distracted' to 'dinner', but he let it pass. "Sarnoff's?"

"Yes, I'm sure I've mentioned it. The little cafe around the corner from the Yard?"

His brain threw up a reference. "That Sarnoff's? It's fifty dollars for a steak there!"

"Don't worry, Sam, I'm paying."

"Can't let you do that," he murmured. 

"Sam, I don't see why you insist on this, when -- " she stopped, suddenly.

"It's not right, a woman paying for a man's meal," he said, to fill the silence.

"Fine, you let me pay this time, and next time you can pay."

He narrowed his eyes. "So long as next time isn't fish and chips from the all-night take-away," he said. 

"Dress nicely, dear," she said, patting his cheek. "And here we are. I'll see you tomorrow night before your shift. Don't be late."

He stood at the gate of the house, and watched her walk inside. If she wasn't back to normal by the time she got back from Quirm, he really would ask Colon. 

Maybe.

***

The staff at Sarnoff's were well-used to a variety of clinetele. During the early afternoon, they not only employed actors trying to get a job at the Dysk and Opera House, but also served the ones who'd gotten jobs. Around three o'clock, the white linen came out, and Sarnoff's went from a slightly shabby cafe to one of the most upscale places to eat in the city. Nobs of all kinds came there for drinks before a night of Culture, and quite expensive meals afterwards. They'd even played host to the Breccia 'businessmen' on occasion, and ordered-out quartz inna bun and fresh shale especially.

Lady Sybil was not a stranger to the staff of Sarnoff's, either; she often met her fellow dragon-lovers for an evening of the most disturbing conversation the waiters had ever heard. Flameless Gripe, Blowback, explosions of all kinds, distinctive ways to tell digestive fluid from fuel...

She did tip well, though. 

They'd never seen Mister Vimes, but they knew him well enough. Lady Sybil sometimes talked about him with her friends, and of course the Yard wasn't that far away, and Corporal Carrot sometimes ate at Sarnoff's in the afternoons. Corporal Carrot admired his Captain, and often spoke of him. The staff were fascinated to finally see Lady Sybil's suitor. They weren't disappointed. 

"Lookit 'im, will you? Looks like 'e'd rip yer 'eart out and beat you over the 'ead with it," said the cook, leaning around the door. "Suppose 'e likes 'is steak raw?"

"Nah, Corporal Carrot says he's a softie, really," said the only-slightly-terrified waiter who was supposed to go out there in a minute and take their order. 

"Lady Sybil said that too, but one of 'er friends says she 'eard 'e once punched a man in the 'ead for bein' rude to a _lawn-ornament_."

"Better not call them that in front of him, then, cook," the waiter said. "All right. Wish me luck. We who are about to serve salute you."

***

Vimes was not an enormous fan of new experiences. New experiences, for a Watchman, could include things like death. This one, however, was somewhat entertaining. Sarnoff's was one of the fanciest joints in the city. The menu proved it. There were things you could dine on here that cost more than the rent on his old flat. Certain bottles of wine, for example. 

"What do you think?" Sybil asked, adjusting her stole. He felt, as he usually did in the presence of Sybil at her best, distinctly underdressed in his uniform. 

"I've never seen anything quite like it," he said, which was true. "Do you suppose they even know what a one-dollar coin looks like around here?"

"Show me one of those again?" Sybil said. He smiled. 

"It's the little gold one, about this big?" he held up his thumb and forefinger. It was their running joke. _Tell me what a one-dollar coin looks like? I dunno, I never saw that much money in one place_. "Look, even the titchy little appetizers -- "

"You order whatever you like, Sam," she said sternly. 

"I don't think they have fried slice," he answered. "All right, all right. I know you wanted to have a nice dinner."

"You did?" Sybil looked downright worried. He tried to reassure her.

"Well, you're going off tomorrow, aren't you? Won't be back for a week and a half. Nice to...nice to leave the city on a good note. You're sending a postcard, aren't you? To...to the Watch, I mean. The last one we got was from Fred, and his wife found out about it, and then Nobby stole it -- "

She smiled. The waiter, who looked as though he was on his last nerve, brought their water and hurried away. 

" -- so we could do with a new one that won't make Carrot look up the Public Posting of Indecent Images statutes again -- "

"Sam, can we talk about something for a minute?"

He looked up from his postcard monologue. "Er...yes?"

"Well, we've been...friends, for a while now. And, and..."

"...closer friends?" he suggested.

"Yes, and I was thinking about..." she looked down. "How much I'm going to miss you when I'm at the show..."

"You'll be so busy, though, and everyone's going to be so excited about the new breed," he said desperately. "You won't have time, you'll be back before you know it."

"I don't know about that." She looked up at him. "Listen, I know it's not...the normal way of things, but I just thought. Well."

"What?"

"Sam, would you like to get married?"

He blinked. He understood every word in the sentence, more or less, but strung together, they did something to his brain. Made it hide, apparently.

"Er...not today?" he asked. Then he winced. "I mean, yes, I'd like that."

Her smile was the prettiest thing he'd seen in a long time. "You would?"

"Yes. Yes. I would. I'd have asked before but..."

" -- it's not my place to ask, I know that -- "

" -- it'd be...nice," he finished. 

"I thought so too."

"And that's why...dinner and...?"

Her smile just got wider. "Apparently there's a very strict tradition when it comes to these things."

"Emma said you'd been reading books on etiquette," said Vimes. 

"Oh yes. I wanted to do it right," said Sybil.

Then Vimes laughed. It wasn't the usual snort of amusement or cynical _hah!_ of a Watchman on a case; it was the full laugh of a satisfied man. It did a lot towards making the waiter less nervous about getting their orders right.

"Sybil, you are a unique woman," he said. "I'll buy you a ring."

"Oh, that's silliness. After all, I didn't have to buy you one."

"Fine, I'll...I'll do something really nice. I'll think of something."

"You already have," said Sybil. The pair of them probably looked like grinning idiots, he thought. But he didn't really care.

 _I'm going to marry Sybil._

_She really wants to._

_**She** asked **me**._


	2. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second way the proposal might have happened...

_...she had style and money and common-sense and self-assurance and all the things that he didn't, and she had opened her heart, and if you let her she could engulf you; the woman was a city. And eventually, under siege, you did what Ankh-Morpork had always done -- unbar the gates, let the conquerors in, and make them your own. --Guards! Guards!_

The New House at Pseudopolis Yard was, in fact, quite old; it had been in the Ramkin family for generations, and was originally meant as a town house, though now the mansion on Scoone Avenue served that purpose rather more grandly. Besides, the Scoone Avenue house had grounds big enough to hold a dragon-barn as well, which is why Lady Sybil Ramkin still lived there, and not somewhere out in the country. 

Pseudopolis Yard had stood empty for more years than you could count, but it was still the New House to the Night Watch. The Old Watch House, on Treacle Mine Road, had been torched to the ground by an inconsiderate dragon, after all. 

It hadn't taken long for the Night Watch to make Pseudopolis Yard their own. It was barracks, dining hall, training yard, and headquarters all in one. Captain Vimes even had an office, though the only difference between 'office' and 'bedroom' in his mind was that one had paperwork in it, and the other had sheets; Vimes was not a man who spent much time indoors. The rugs had been pulled up, the paintings taken down and stored in the Ramkin Mansion's attic, the posh furniture had been replaced by desks and chairs, the ballroom chandelier wrapped in cloth and carted to the Opera House to which it had been donated.

It's so empty, Vimes sometimes thought, as his bootheels echoed on the wooden floors. It wasn't as though there were many of them in the Night Watch. Lady Sybil employed more people as servants up at Scoone Avenue. Just him, Colon, Nobby, and Carrot -- although Carrot had been making noises about them recruiting a few more lads. 

So had the Patrician. Vimes left them to it. This morning, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Good day, sir!" Lance-Corporal Carrot Ironfoundersson said cheerfully. He was polishing Vimes' spare breastplate, the one with fewer dings and dents in it; nobody polished armour like Carrot. Vimes hadn't asked him to, but you rarely had to ask Carrot to do anything. Sometimes you had to ask him to stop. "Have a quiet shift?"

It was so early in the morning that the shine was barely worn from 'late at night'. The market stalls were opening soon. Most sensible people were still asleep, but for the Night Watch, it was shift's end -- time to go home, have a hot meal, and get to bed. Fred Colon had a little row-house and a wife who cooked for him, but the other three had rooms in Pseudopolis Yard, and shifted for themselves if they wanted anything hot, or fitting the description 'meal'. 

"Not too bad," he said, hanging up his coat. "Yard quiet?"

"Yessir. Hallo Nobby!" Carrot called, as Nobby Nobbs sidled in, smoking one of his horrible dog-end cigarettes and carrying the remains of a curry. 

"Mornin'," Nobby grunted. "Any cocoa on?"

"Fresh pot, on the stove," Carrot said, nodding towards the small stove they'd installed in the front office of the Yard. 

"Got what you arsked for, Captain," Nobby said, pouring himself a cup of cocoa. "Pawnshop on Peach Pie street. Didn't nick it and pocket the money you give me, neither, just like you said." He held out a small, remarkably clean white stone box. Vimes took it, opened it, cleaned out a little dust with his finger, and shut it again. 

"It'll do fine. Thanks, Nobby," he said absently. "Carrot, do stop polishing, would you?"

Carrot looked mildly hurt. "I just thought it'd be nice," he said. "Never know when you want a suit with a bit of a polish on it, sir."

Nobby wagged his eyebrows. "The ladies do like a man in a neat uniform, sir," he added loyally. "Lady Sybil's always sayin'."

"I suppose you put him up to it," Vimes said gloomily.

"Pr'aps I did, sir."

"All right." Vimes unbuckled his breastplate. "Let's have it, then." Carrot helped him into the shining armour, and he had to stop the lad dusting off his shoulders. "It's chain-mail, Carrot, it doesn't show lint."

"You never know, sir," Carrot answered, implacably.

"What's all the to-do?" Sergeant Colon asked, as he came in out of the early morning chill. "Ah, that's a well-shined breastplate, Carrot," he said approvingly. "Must look smart on parade, mustn't we, Captain?"

"It's not parade, it's _breakfast_ ," Vimes protested. The others exchanged a conspiratorial look. "I've had breakfast with Lady Sybil for months."

"Oh aye, but you ain't never had that in your pocket afore, have you? Begging your pardon, Captain," Colon said. Nobby sniggered.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vimes answered, with as much dignity as a man in a shiny breastplate can muster. 

"Come on, Captain Vimes, give us a look," Carrot asked. He was a well-grown lad, but he was still a lad, and he sounded like a ten-year-old on Hogswatchnight.

"Some men manage this without any assistance, you know," Vimes fought, but weakly. "Colon didn't have an audience, I know that."

"Nah, but I was just a lowly constable," Colon said, grinning. "I wasn't _Captain_."

"Fred -- "

"Just a look, Cap'n, it won't hurt it none," Nobby urged. 

"Bunch of old ladies, you are," Vimes said, reaching into his pocket. "Never should have told you, Fred."

"Prob'ly not," Fred agreed, comfortably.

It was in a greasy, much-faded velvet box. It didn't burn with the fire of a thousand suns. It didn't even glitter. It gleamed, barely. They gave him a dim look.

"It's all I could afford," Vimes protested. "It's not as though I'm a rich man, you know."

"Not yet," Colon said slyly.

"I did get a nice box. Had Nobby find me one."

"Which I in no way nicked," Nobby said, urgently. "Fairly bought and paid for."

"All right, I believe you. Under the circumstances, I won't ask if there was any change." He transferred It to the white stone box, and put the box in his coat pocket, tossing the grubby velvet one in a trash bin. "Now, do I pass inspection?"

He had meant it as a joke, and felt suddenly exposed in front of the laserlike looks of Carrot, Nobby, and Colon. Finally, they glanced at each other, and nodded. A Watchman was a Watchman, and if you minded that he had a dented breastplate or worn-out boots, you oughtn't to be hanging about in the first place.

"Buy her an apple!" Carrot called, as Vimes stalked out. "They're good for you! Lady Sybil likes apples!"

"An' don't smoke!" Colon added.

"An' don't do anything stupid!" Nobby said, but he waited until the door had closed. The other two glared at him. "Well, she might take the Yard back," he said defensively.

***

Outside, it was crisp and cool in the late spring morning. Everything was simpler outside, even during the daylight hours, which were usually something Vimes shut his curtains against so that he could sleep. The streets were still quiet, and -- you could almost believe -- peaceful.

Lady Sybil must be at least a little fond of him, he thought, to get up at six in the morning on a cold day and venture out of the old house on Scoone Avenue. She'd started coming to meet him for breakfast when it became obvious that he worked during her dinnertime, most days, and it was a pleasant little habit they had now. She met him in Sator Square, a nice walk from the Watch House, and he listened to the news of her world* as they ate. He'd had to save her a few times from Dibbler's treacherous breakfast sandwiches, because Lady Sybil was a trusting soul, but then she'd often saved him from an early-morning drink when he was in a foul mood. 

* Mainly dull society gatherings, spiced up by Sybil's true passion, dragon-breeding. Since she bred swamp-dragons, who often exploded for no apparent reason, it could be quite exciting. It was a rare breakfast that didn't include both the word 'orchestra' and the phrase 'blast radius'. 

She would talk at him until he couldn't help coming round to her point of view, which was similar to Carrot's -- there wasn't anyone you couldn't get along with, if you were a good chap and tried hard. It didn't last forever, but it lasted through breakfast, and that was enough. 

What he wanted, he'd discovered, was for breakfast to last longer. Or at least, for it to be a sure thing*.

* Which some people would call a pretty good definition of love, if not burdened with Vimes' cynical view of the softer emotions.

"Morning, Sybil," he said, stepping into the square and tipping his helmet. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting."

"Good morning, Sam," she answered. "I just arrived myself. Shall we?"

He nodded, curtly, and fell into step beside her. 

"I thought we might try that little cafe, the one that just opened off the Square," Sybil began. "I hear they do an excellent Genuan Surprise."

"Don't know that I want to be surprised by anything they've got in Genua," he said. She smiled. "Do they do egg and chips?"

"I imagine they could have a try. You're an easy man to cook for, Sam."

Egg and chips was not how he had wanted to steer the conversation, but he hadn't thought about that bit up until now. _Speaking of surprise, Sybil_ or possibly, _Look here, I don't take up much space and --_

"The cafe sounds fine," he said. 

"How was your evening? Not too damp?" she asked. She always called it his evening -- not shift, or work, or anything so common. Sybil had class, loads of it, and grace. 

It'd never work, he thought despairingly. It really never would. Daft to even try.

"Sam?"

He glanced at her. "Oh, right. Yes, fine. Not much damp. Listen, Sybil..."

"Yes?"

"I was wondering..." he trailed off as they passed a fruit merchant, and Carrot's words came back to haunt him. "Here, these look fresh, would you like an apple?" he blithered. She stopped, perplexed.

"Yes, I suppose..." she said, slowly. He tossed a coin to the merchant, and picked up one of the man's spotty, elderly fruits, which he shined on his sleeve before handing it to her.

Class and grace. And Sam Vimes had neither. If it was possible to actively lack class and grace, he would.

"Are you sure you're all right, Sam?" she asked. "You seem a bit distracted today."

"Just thinking things over," he answered.

_What have you got, Sam? An empty rank, boots with holes in, a bare bedroom in the Watch House and a few barely clung-to convictions. A breastplate with dents -- shiny enough, true, but you didn't even do that, did you? An attitude even cynics think is a bit on the depressive side, a badge, and a bad shave. Why would Sybil Ramkin give you a second look?_

_On the other hand_ , a quiet, Carrot-like voice said, _why's she up at six in the morning to have breakfast with you? Eh?_

_A man's got to have something to offer a lady like her._

_You've got a badge. You're a Captain. When was the last time a woman smiled at your jokes? When was the last time you made a joke?_

_You **are** a joke, if you think this is going to work._

There was a scream, up ahead. Sam stopped, laying a hand on Sybil's arm. Another scream. "Unlicensed Thief! Stop 'im!"

"Stay here," he said sharply, and took off running, shedding his heavy coat as he went. It didn't take long to come around the side of a fishmonger's stall and see the wailing woman, and a man who was apparently in training for the hundred-meter-dash-with-handbag. As he tore after the purse-snatcher, he thought about Leggy Gaskin, who had run after a thief and gotten a one-way trip to Small Gods cemetery for his troubles. _You could be a fast copper, or you could be an old copper, but you couldn't be --_

Blow that for a game of soldiers. You couldn't commit a crime under the nose of a Watch Captain, Night or otherwise, and expect to get away with it. He nipped down an alleyway that would cut diagonally out towards the street the thief had just turned down, and arrived in time to lay an angry, breathless punch on the running man. 

"Let's see your guild license," he demanded, as the thief fell on the cobbles, nose bleeding. "Eh? Haven't got one? I expect you left it in your other trousers. No, you don't," he advised, as the man tried to crawl away. He grabbed him by the collar, flipped him over, and glared down at him. Lifted one leg to put the boot in -- 

And saw Sybil come puffing around the corner, the thief's victim in tow. She has a good turn of speed, he thought. He lowered his foot, slightly ashamed. 

The purse's owner, however, had no such compunctions. She had no sooner snatched her purse back from the thief than she was laying into him with it. To judge from the thuds it made, she must be carrying lead hankies. Two officers from the Day Watch were trotting up, too, so he let them go to the trouble of pulling the pair apart and sorting things out.

"That was jolly brave of you," Sybil said, handing his coat back to him as they walked down the alley. Something jangled in a pocket. "Sorry, you dropped it -- I think something broke..."

He stopped and reached into his pocket, bringing out a handful of white stone slivers.

"What was it -- " she started to ask, then stopped, suddenly. Along with the slivers, he held a (mercifully unblemished) gold ring with a small, a very small, rather blueish diamond set in it. 

"Oh bugger," he said, as her eyes widened. "I didn't mean to -- I mean, I wanted it to be more...er, less -- not in an alley, for starters -- "

"It's perfect," she said. His brow knit.

"It is? I mean..." he trailed off, haplessly. "I didn't know how to ask...but...would you like to? Erm, marry me. That is." She was staring at him. He brushed the chips of stone off his palm. "It's all right if you'd rather not -- "

Sybil began to laugh. It started out very quietly, then slowly grew in volume until he began to worry. "Of course I will, you silly man," she gasped. "If I'd...rather...not..." she repeated, going off into gales of laughter again. 

"Are you all right?" he asked. Perhaps the shock had put her over the edge.

She nodded, wordlessly, still giggling. Then she managed to get herself under control, leaned over, and kissed him. Engulfed him, really. Sybil didn't do anything by halves.

Sam Vimes was not a man accustomed to being kissed, especially in public, even if 'public' was only a dim, uninhabited alley. When the surprise wore off, he saw she'd put the ring on her finger, and was admiring it. 

"It isn't much -- " he began. 

"Nonsense. It's lovely. I've always liked blue," she said.

 _Class and grace by the bucketload_ , Sam thought, as they picked their way back to Sator Square. _Class and grace and a heart big enough for the whole world._

_Including me._


	3. Curtains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domesticity looms.

_And now he was on three meat meals a day, good boots, a warm bed at night and, come to that, a wife too. Good old Sybil -- although she did tend to talk about curtains these days, but Sergeant Colon had said this happened to wives and was a biological thing and perfectly normal. -- Feet of Clay_

There were, as every lance-constable who took the shilling knew, Perks that came with the job of Watchman. If you could call it a perk to risk your neck for a city that could care less about you, then you were happy; if you could call it a perk to be glared at by Stoneface Vimes if you were unusually slow or stupid, then you were happy; but everyone, no matter how masochistic, appreciated the universal perk of a free coffee and maybe a hot meal, if you knew the right place to get it.

Fred Colon was an old master at the meal-on-the-house, for any number of reasons; possibly, it even had something to do with the fact that anyone will feed a man who so obviously appreciated the food. A good cook likes to be noticed. 

Sam Vimes, on the other hand, rarely indulged. He could afford to pay, after all -- he drew a good salary as Watch Commander, and his wife had more money than the gods*, according to Watch scuttlebutt. 

* At least, the minor gods. The major players probably didn't have as much in liquid assets, but they had better real estate.

So Vimes was paying for his meal, and because a man has some pride, Colon was mumping his, in Sham Harga's House of Ribs. They ate as a lot of Watchmen did, in companionable silence, except for the clatter of forks on plates and requests for the salt. 

Colon sensed that his Commander had something he wanted to talk about, but that it would come in its own time. He was rather glad he still had Vimes' ear -- with thirty or more officers in the Watch, including Captain Carrot, Sam Vimes still came to him. So he ate his meal and drank his coffee and waited for Vimes to work his way around to it. 

"Fred," said Vimes slowly, chewing a bit of what he hoped was only gristle, "I think I need your opinion on something."

"Oh yes?" Colon asked, looking over the edge of his coffee cup. Vimes cleared his throat, uncomfortably.

"We've known each other, what, twenty-five years?"

"About that, I'd say." Colon chuckled. "Back before I joined up the regiment, an' you was lance-constable."

"Yes, right. And you'd just married -- "

"Oh aye," Colon said, happily ensconsed in memory lane. "Weren't you courtin' a girl up in Cockbill? Near yer mum's?"

"Likely. Most lads had a girl in their street," Vimes said thoughtfully. "It's on the subject I wanted to..." he cleared his throat again. "That is to say, married life..."

"An' how's her Ladyship?" Colon asked, with what he probably thought was a sly smile.

"Fine, I believe..." said Vimes. "Fred...you know I've never actually been married before, and you could be considered an authority on it. Having been, er, married, previously, and presently."

Colon felt a dim horror creep over him. "Commander...ye're not...you don't need -- "

"Curtains," Vimes said wretchedly. Colon's horror faded, to be replaced by confusion. "I mean, it's all she's talked about. For three days. And of course, I...I don't particularly have strong feelings about curtains, it's just -- she's never much cared about what the place looks like, which suits me fine. And now she does care. Er."

Colon nodded. "She's decoratin' and such? Tidying up the place? Trimmin' hedges, buyin' carpet?"

Vimes' face flooded with relief. "Does your missus do this too?" he asked.

"Not so much anymore, she got it out of her system when the children were small. S'perfectly normal. Probably biological," Colon said, with the air of an expert. 

"But it happens? I mean, she's not going mad?"

"Well, not for a woman," Colon concluded. "Best to humor them, really."

The two exchanged the silent look of men who know, in their secret hearts, that they will never, ever be masters in their own home. What Colon called 'humoring them' was a concession to that fact.

"Look at the fabric samples, sort of thing," Vimes said, his tone easier now. 

"Don't let her get white," Colon advised. "Always goin' on about fingerprints on the white drapes, if you do. An' I draw the line at goin' along to pick 'em out. Tis not fitting for a man to decide how his curtains hang. Goin' against nature, that." 

"I think she wants a dragon pattern," Vimes mumbled. 

"Bit mad for them, isn't she?"

"A bit," Vimes said with a smile. "I've asked her to bring back a thimble when she goes to the Pseudopolis dragon show, for Mrs. Colon. How's her collection?"

Fred Colon turned pink. "Got me buildin' a new cabinet for 'em," he muttered.

"Speaking of building, I'd better hop," Vimes said, checking his pocket-watch. "Must be there to meet the workmen. Roof blew off the Dragon House again." He paused as he tossed down a few coins for the meal. "Thanks, Fred," he said.

"Any time," Fred answered. "Remember, don't let 'er get white!"

Vimes waved a hand as he ducked out into the Ankh-Morpork evening. 

"Thimbles!" he said to himself, grinning.

Inside, Fred Colon started on his mashed potatoes. 

"Dragons," he said, shaking his head.


	4. Maybe It's The Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vimes isn't really sure why he's suddenly so desirable.

_Oh dear, here we go again, thought Vimes. Why did I wait until I was married to become strangely attractive to powerful women? Why didn't it happen to me when I was sixteen? I could have done with it then.  
\--Night Watch_

Consider, if you will, the wedding ring. 

Weight, perhaps an ounce. As with most, this one is made of gold, which appeals to humans and dwarves alike, is inoffensive to the undead, and which trolls find quite tasty. 

Wedding rings aren't, by and large, very fancy; they have less to prove than engagement rings. Just a subtle notice, or if you're that kind of spouse, a reminder, that I Have Someone. Perhaps an engraving on the inside. "All I Refuse and Thee I Chuse"; "My Love Forever"; and on one memorable occasion, "I'm Glad I Knocked You Up". 

This one, however, simply reads "S.V. - S.R." and a date. Perhaps it is telling that nothing more needs to be said. 

It should fit snugly on the fourth finger of the left hand, and be just a little difficult to take off. In the summertime, if removed, it shows a tan-line on the sort of man who spends his time outside. The sort of man tanned below the knees. 

It is, also, and unbeknownst to many, a glamour of sorts. The thrill of the forbidden. The temptation to see how far one can get before the ring-wearer pulls back...or doesn't pull back. 

For Sam Vimes, who sets great store by symbols of office, it comes in a close second to his badge and his cigar case. 

Vimes sat on the comfortably warm stone of an ornamental bench in Sator Square, back propped against the arm, knees drawn up, and considered the small gold ring held between thumb and forefinger. Carrot, taking up the rest of the bench and tidily eating a lunchtime curry, turned to look at him. 

"Everything all right, sir?" he asked, somewhat anxiously. Like Vetinari, Sam Vimes was a little bit dangerous when he got thoughtful. Vimes, face upturned to the pleasant sun of late Grune, didn't answer. 

"Sir?" 

"Hm?" Vimes asked, looking over the ring, into Carrot's broad, slightly sunburnt face. 

"All right, sir?" 

"Oh? Yes. All right, Carrot," he replied, with a reassuring look. He let the ring fall into his palm, and slid it back over his finger, covering the tan-line deftly. He was always proud that his hands were Watchmen's hands, calloused across the palms, browned in the summertime. The gold sank into the tan of his skin, gleaming a little. He picked up the curry he'd left to cool for a minute, and began to eat with the singleminded intensity of a man for whom thinking and eating in unison is difficult. 

"Carrot..." he said, after a minute. 

"Yes?" Carrot asked, around a mouthful of pan-bread. 

"You and Angua." 

"Everything's fine, sir," Carrot answered automatically. 

"No, but...d'you ever think about marrying?" Vimes asked. He nudged aside a mysterious chunk of something with his bread, and scooped up another mouthful. 

"Not really. Maybe one day. Any particular reason, Commander?" 

"Oh...just wondering things." 

Carrot reflected that it was a quiet day, crimewise, and began quite suddenly to wish that someone would commit a crime. With nothing to do, the Commander's mind roamed in ways that could seriously depress him, or everyone around him. Nothing big; an unlicenced mugging, or maybe a speeding violation*... 

* The Commander liked speeding violations; they brought in money for the city, and he got to do a bit of running.

"Lady Selachii keeps reporting garden gnome thefts," Vimes continued. 

"She's a great one for decorative gardening, her ladyship," Carrot agreed. 

"Mmh. According to her scullery boy, that's not all she's keen on." 

Carrot considered this. Finally he decided on a suitable reply. 

"Huh?" he said. 

"I tried sending Ping and Visit, but she said she wants the Commander personally involved. Ping won't be able to look anyone in the eye for a week, poor lad. So I went up yesterday and spoke to the staff." 

Carrot waited patiently. He found that his Commander almost always came to a point, if given enough time. 

"Scullery lad showed me a broom closet in the basement. Funny thing, big pile of uprooted garden gnomes in it." 

"Well, then the crime's solved!" 

"There never was a crime, Carrot. Lady Selachii is hiding her own gnomes," Vimes said patiently. 

"Perhaps we ought to get her some help," said Carrot. "You know there's an Uberwaldean doctor in the city, he claims people can sometimes get better just by talking." 

"Balls." 

"No, his name is Dr. Freid...." 

"Lady Selachii doesn't need a doctor," Vimes said. "Not unless he makes housecalls." 

"Was that innuendo, sir?" 

"Carrot, we're going to make a normal human out of you yet." 

"I hope not!" 

"Lady Selachii is, to quote the lovely ladies of negotiable affection, on the prowl," Vimes continued. "And I think I'm the prowlee." 

"Well, Mister Vimes -- " 

"If you say I'm an attractive and powerful man, Carrot, I will hurt you." 

Carrot had the grace to look embarrassed. "Lord Selachii's not around much, sir, is my point." 

"You see this, Carrot? This is not a lucky charm," Vimes said, pointing to the ring on his finger. 

"Well, you never know, sir. It could be. Did you get it off of an old man in a mysterious shop you'd never seen befo -- " 

"My _point_ , Carrot, is that Lady Selachii is the third woman in six months to try this. Remember the Duchess of Pseudopolis?" 

"That nice lady who rented a house here for the winter?" 

"One of Sybil's houses." 

"She did chase after you rather shamelessly at the Winter Waltz at Lord Rust's," Carrot said, but in the dubious voice of someone who isn't entirely comfortable saying something unkind about a woman old enough to be his mother. 

"Chase? I had a time explaining to Sybil what I was doing hiding in the kitchen, I can tell you! And the reception for the Genuan ambassador..." 

"The Duchess wasn't at that reception, was she?" 

"No, but the ambassador was," Vimes said darkly. 

"Not Her Honourable Ladyship?" 

"She asked me to call her Flo. Nothing good ever comes of calling a woman Flo, Carrot. Remember that." 

Vimes recalled, too late, that Carrot was a very literal, and still very impressionable, young man. He could see that his words were being recorded on a little filing card, and placed safely away behind Carrot's guileless blue eyes for safekeeping. 

"At least they went away, after a while. Lady Selachii's probably not going to," Vimes mused. 

"Her family's lived in Ankh-Morpork for generations." 

"Hah, yes, and probably employed some of mine." Vimes finished his curry, and licked his fingertips. Carrot looked mildly disapproving. "You see? I have absolutely nothing to recommend me. I am common as muck and rude as...as a very rude thing. _And_ the half of the upper class that doesn't want me in bed wants me in an early grave." 

"Maybe it's the uniform, sir," Carrot ventured. 

"Maybe," the Commander muttered. His hand drifted up to rub the tip of the scar that crossed his face from brow to cheekbone, slanting over his eye. It had become a distressing habit of his; Carrot couldn't fathom why he did it.

"Why don't you _ask_ Lady Selachii?" said the Captain. Vimes looked at him, squinting. Another Watchman might have flinched, but Carrot was used to his Commander's expressions, and this was 3a: Thoughtful And Suspicious*. He waited for whatever gear was turning in his Commander's head to finish its rotation.

* Carrot had never been unlucky enough to be on the end of numbers 2** or 4b***, but he had every sympathy for those who had.   
** Homicidally furious  
*** Blandly inquiring (this is never a good thing, in a superior officer). 

"Just out and ask her?" Vimes said finally. "Sounds like something you'd do, Carrot."

Carrot nodded over the remains of his curry.

"But you'd get away with it," Vimes sighed. 

"Well, sir..."

"Yes?"

"You are a copper, sir," Carrot spoke slowly, as if waiting for his thoughts to get a little ahead of his words. "I mean, when it comes to policing, you're it. Us. You wrote the book on how to be a copper, sir."

"Very big print," Vimes murmured to himself. "Lots of brightly coloured pictures."

"I'm sure you don't mean that," Carrot said severely.

"What are you saying, Carrot?"

"Well...getting away with it, sir...it's really just a matter of believing what you say."

Another long pause. Finally, a terribly wicked smile crept over Vimes' face. It was the sort of smile that is the last thing a robbery victim sees before waking up in the hospital.

"As usual, Carrot," he said, swinging his legs down and standing to stretch, "you have an answer for everything."

"We're due at the Palace in ten minutes, Commander," was Carrot's only reply.

***

When he was home in time for dinner -- which was rare -- and when he didn't have business after dinner -- which was also rare but becoming less so -- Vimes usually found an excuse to sit with his wife and child and quite simply...be. It was enough of a departure from his normal business, these days, just to _not think_ for a while. Sybil liked to sit on the rather battered couch near the fire in the library, her husband next to her and her son in a bassinet nearby; Vimes liked it too. He liked it when he had a book in front of him, and his wife's head on his shoulder, and his son within reaching distance. 

But the conversation with Carrot had bothered him all day, and he found he couldn't concentrate on the book in the slightest. After a few minutes' trying, he closed it.

"Sybil..." he said. She shifted slightly so that she could look up at him.

"Yes, Sam?"

He tried to think how to ask the next question without causing a row. "If I were...if I were married...to someone else, I mean...and you and I knew each other..."

Sybil raised one eyebrow. Sam Vimes was not a man for hypothetical situations. He had enough real problems to deal with.

"Are you planning on marrying someone else?" she asked, with a yawn. 

"No! No. Of course not."

"So if you were married to someone else..."

"But everything else was the same -- I was still Commander and the Duke and the rest of it..."

"Rum luck for you, change wives and you're still stuck with the title -- "

"Sybil, do be serious."

"Sam, whatever is on your mind is far too serious for me to be serious as well," she said, and took the opportunity to kiss him before he could react. Sam was not a kissing man, by and large. "Is this about Lady Selachii?" she asked.

"Should've known you'd know about that," he said, somewhat ruefully.

"Do you want to know what to do about it, or what I think about it?"

"I think I know what to do about it. I just..."

"Do spit it out, Sam."

"Why me, of all people?" he asked. "There's a hundred men in the city who'd give their left arm to...entertain her Ladyship in the absence of his Lordship. Why'd she single me out? Why do they always single me out?"

Sybil rubbed his arm. "Because you're different, Sam. Yes, you're in her social class -- "

" -- I am not -- "

" -- yes you are," she said, without missing a beat. "And you're rich and powerful. All the men we know have that. You're handsome -- "

"Ha!"

"Sam, stop interrupting," she scolded. He rubbed the tip of his scar, sullenly. She took his hand and pulled it away.

"You are," she said softly. "You wear everything you're feeling on your face. That's about as handsome as a man gets, I reckon."

"Yes, well, rugged good looks aside -- " 

She smiled. "You don't play the game, Sam. It's the same reason Havelock made you an ambassador. You're a new sort of toy -- you're uncomplicated, and blunt, and people aren't used to that. It makes them interested." She twined her fingers in his. "Lady Selachii wants to add you to her collection of unusual men, that's all. Once she sees you're not interested, she'll lose interest too. You...aren't interested, are you?"

"No!"

"Only teasing, Sam."

Young Sam began to cry, then, and Sybil took him out of his basket, hushing him gently. 

"There, Sam," she said, smiling. Sam Vimes senior, unaccustomed to the emotions he often felt when he saw Sybil holding his child, watched in dark-eyed silence as she hummed to the baby. 

***

The grounds of the Selachii estate were damp and misty in the early morning, before the fog of the nighttime really burned off into the bright, merciless sun of summer in Ankh-Morpork. Vimes trudged up the gravel pathway, feeling rather like an actor who's had two hours to memorise his part. 

He wanted it to be early in the day, to get it over with, and Lady Selachii had no objection to the hour; she was probably, he thought glumly, going to be in a dressing gown. 

Unlike Carrot, Vimes went to front doors, these days; it was a point of pride that Watchmen were more than delivery boys. A servant let him in, with a mixture of sympathy and sullen suspicion, and led him up the stairs. 

Lady Selachii was seated before a mirror, brushing her hair. There was the requisite dressing gown, and the shiny, lacy nightgown, of the sort nobody actually wore to sleep in*. She flashed him a brilliant smile when he took off his helmet and returned her greeting.

* This was an assumption on his part, not having had extensive experience with what women slept in, but Vimes could hardly imagine that their prime purpose was for comfort while snoozing.

"My but it's early still," she said, stretching lazily. "Always on the job, are we, Commander?"

"Crime doesn't sleep," he replied. "Even garden-gnome theft."

"Ah, yes. My poor little gnomes," Lady Selachii smiled brilliantly again. "And besides, why sleep when there are so many more entertaining things one could be doing?"

"Couldn't speak to that. I like a good night's sleep, myself," he replied. "Shall I take your report?"

"My what?"

"Well, I'll need descriptions of the gnomes, and any possible troublemakers in the household..." he reached for his notebook, but she laughed and shook her head.

"Surely you don't think I called the Commander of the Watch to the estate to chase down gnome thieves?" she asked.

"Especially since they're all stowed in a broom closet in the cellar," Vimes agreed. Her eyes narrowed slightly. He could see her trying to decide which game he was playing.

"So why do you think...I asked you to come here?" asked Lady Selachii. One of the straps of her nightdress slid off her shoulder, and suddenly he was getting a very close look indeed at her Ladyship.

But he'd been waiting for this. Well. Sort of. Not in _that_ way. But yes, waiting...

Not taking his eyes from Lady Selachii's face, he reached into his breastplate and took out his notebook. He licked the tip of his pencil.

"Lady Selachii, would you like to explain why you are in a state of undress in front of the Commander of the Watch?" he asked. Several small inner Vimeses were going poker-faced.

"Well, I..." she blustered, looking embarrassed. "My strap must have just come undone -- "

"I'm fairly sure I saw your hand unbuckle it," Vimes said, making a few short notations in his book. "Go on, do it up, I'll look away."

Lady Selachii apparently thought this was a flirtation of some kind. She swiftly shifted gears.

"Or you'll do what?" she asked, walking past him. One finger trailed along the edge of his chain-mail. 

It was an enormous irony that yes, he was indeed completely untouched by this. Lady Selachii...who was objectively a good deal more physically attractive than Sybil, not that he'd admit it in a million years...had no attraction for him at all. Not a flicker of desire.

 _And even if there had been,_ he thought, _I'm a copper. That's all I'm good at being, and I'm very good at being it. I'm a copper on a case. And she wouldn't even half-distract me. That de Worde boy is more distracting than her._

_Hells. Ten years ago I would have --_

_\-- been sent to the kitchen entrance and told to wipe my boots._

"Ma'am, there are laws about public decency in this town," he said, keeping a straight face. Fred Colon had looked them up once, in Carrot's copy of Laws and Ordinanfes; they'd laughed for hours over some of the laws they were still supposed to enforce. Public Decency was something that happened to other cities.

"Oh?" she said. She pressed against his hip. A foot slid up his leg. He looked down at it, perplexed, in his best "is this a clue?" attitude.

"There are also laws about assault," he said. 

"Arrest me," she replied. 

"I'd really rather not, Lady Selachii. If you pull your strap up I'll be on my way and we'll say no more about this. A warning's more than most get," he added, quite seriously. 

Gods. Carrot must feel like this _all the time_. The power that came with willfully and aggressively Doing Your Duty. No wonder the poor lad was a bit mental.

Lady Selachii looked confused. Vimes turned his head to look her in the eye. He saw the shock; the nobility rarely met each other's eyes at all, and never while doing this sort of thing.

"Are you attempting to seduce an officer of the Watch?" he asked, curiously.

"Yes," she answered, batting her eyes.

Vimes took a second for self-examination.

Nothing. He was a copper on a case, and she was a misleading clue.

"Madam, in accordance with section three, paragraph eight of the city Watch code of conduct, I am forbidden to become intoxicated, commit crime, or indulge in personal licence while on duty, on pain of severance*," he recited. "I'm fairly certain seduction comes under personal licence. However, my shift ends at six thirty this evening, and if you come up to the house on Scoone Avenue, I'm sure we can discuss this with Sybil."

* Vimes especially liked that section, because 'severance' was never clearly defined. Whatever it was, it terrified the new recruits.

The name was like a slap in the face.

"That fool doesn't know what she's got," she snapped, stepping back.

"Can't speak to that," he said, savouring every word of his reply. "But she knows what you haven't got."

Lady Selachii's jaw dropped open. 

"I recommend you get that strap fixed," he said. He put on his helmet -- touching it respectfully -- and left.

Behind him, he heard the faint sounds of a woman going into angry fits.

He chuckled.


	5. The Philosophy of Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrot spies on Vimes, who's having a romance with de Worde, and it's not really anything like it sounds.

It is, by now, a well-established notion that camels are the best mathematicians in the world -- any given world, as a matter of fact. In this case, we speak of the Discworld, which dances a razor's-edge ballet between existence and eradication through sensible thought. They are still the best, nonetheless. 

It has never occurred to anyone to ask who the best philosophers are.

Oh, some say the Ephebians, who can prove to you that nothing exists and time is an illusion; some say it's the Omnians, who can find a loophole with which to defend any theological point of inquiry; some even say it's the followers of the Way of Mrs. Cosmopolite, who after all do have the most well-known holy book in the multiverse. 

Truth is, it's gargoyles.

Balls, you say. Gargoyles don't talk. They don't even move. They eat pigeons.

All of which is true. Gargoyles tend to stay in one place, which gives them a lot of time for thinking. And they're not very good talkers, and they don't usually have anyone to share their thoughts with*.

* Raising an interesting question about how gargoyles procreate, which has been thoroughly discussed in recent Ankh-Morpork folk songs, but never really answered.

You could say they're philosophical about the whole thing.

***

Most gargoyles have identities intimately tied up with city geography; Corporal Downspout was one of the few exceptions. He considered 'Corporal' to be that part of his name. 

Because he was a Watch officer. 

He was, in fact, head of the gargoyle 'wing' of the Watch, which had started out with just him and Pediment and now encompassed at least two officers for every Watch house. Normally he looked like a wrinkly, beak-faced old man with bat ears and half-spread wings, but tonight he was incognito, which for a gargoyle means either lurking in the shadows or holding a small animal in one's mouth. He'd chosen a rat, who was currently having a very hard time of things. 

And he was watching the office of the Ankh-Morpork _Times_ , from a low outcrop on the ground floor of a tailor's shop.

Downspout, unusually for a gargoyle, had a little bit of initiative. He was not, technically speaking, on assignment. In fact, Commander Vimes would probably be quite angry if he knew what Downspout was doing. But Downspout was a Watchman, and the Watch had very firm Rules about taking care of its own. 

He'd noticed what Carrot referred to as the Interesting Activity on his own, but he hadn't had time to report it before the Captain himself came to him.

"Now it's not that I want you to keep an eye on him, mind," said Carrot. "That'd be a shameful display of mistrust of an officer. But if you did happen to see him walking about at night, you might make sure you know where he's going. Just in case he got into trouble."

And he probably meant that.

Probably.

Downspout's head swiveled slightly, in response to the sound of boots on cobblestones. 

Here he comes...

He came down the street in the shadows, walking with the air of a man going for the hundred metres' nonchalant stroll. Downspout felt himself grip the rat tighter in anticipation.

He looked left; he looked right; he took off his helmet, smoothed his hair self-consciously, hitched up his sword belt, and knocked cautiously on the door. 

A light went on, and when the door opened, Downspout saw the silhouette of a young woman in the doorway. He wasn't particularly well-versed in human interactions, but he knew enough to recognize that sort of figure when he saw it. 

The Watchman glanced around again, and stepped inside at her invitation.

Two feet to Downspout's left, a cloud of cigar smoke wafted upwards.

"It's interesting, isn't it, Corporal?" asked Commander Vimes, the dog-end of his smoke glowing in the dim night. He stepped out of the shadows and leaned on the ledge Downspout was crouched on. "I was worried, you know, when he started staying out nights, but I didn't bet on this development. A Watchman meeting nightly with a representative of our fair newspaper. Carrot asked you to look? Or was it your idea?"

"Oth, ur," Downspout murmured.

"Both? Well. Good to know the men are keeping such a close eye on him. Perhaps too close an eye. Go on ahead, Downspout. You're off this case."

Downspout dropped the rat, which scuttled away, and began the slow, hesitant crawl towards the upper levels of the city, where he was more at home. 

***

Inside the old offices, long since abandoned by the _Times_ for better digs, Sara de Worde laughed and toyed with the edge of a curtain, shyly. The young man across from her put his helmet down carefully. 

"You're so serious all the time, Sam," Sara said. She went to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He let her kiss him; after a moment, he kissed back.

"There's so much to be serious about," Sam Vimes-Ramkin, Watch constable and well-deserving heir to the name Old Stoneface, replied. "For starters, I'm almost positive I was followed tonight."

"So? It's not illegal to be in love, you know," she answered. 

"It is when I'm the son of the Commander and you're a risk to city security."

"You never tell me anything."

"I tell you lots of things, but it's a bit hard, you're a reporter and you usually know about them by the time -- "

"No, that's not what I mean," Sara said. "I mean, you have never told me anything I could tell papa, for the paper. Not that I would."

"I know that, and you know that, but my father doesn't. Neither does yours, for that matter. If they knew -- "

"They will know," Sara said, with the smug pride of a woman with a secret. "How much longer do we have to wait, Sam?"

"Just until my references go through with the Genuan Watch Commander. Then we're for the swamp, and you can start your paper, and I can get some rank, and when we come back -- "

" -- we'll be our own people," she answered. "How long, do you suppose?"

"Well, it'll be two years for Corporal, and five more if I want Sergeant, but I figure if I make rank over there, I can come back here and nobody can say I traded on the Vimes name. Besides, dad's said he'll retire."

"He always says that. He never will, you know."

Sam lifted her up, setting her deftly on a long, flat table. "Don't let's talk about it," he said, touching her cheek. 

"What should we talk about, then? The trouble we're both going to be in, once you do get the job in Genua and we both have to tell our parents?"

"We could elope. Send them a clacks from twenty miles outside the city."

"Mum would go _spare_ if we eloped. She and dad've been planning the page layout for my wedding since I was twelve," Sara said, and kissed him on the nose. He made a face. 

"They'll go spare anyhow. They think you're too good for a common Watchman."

"I'm not too good, and you're not common, Sam, you know that."

"Common as muck," said Sam proudly, in her ear. "My father was born in the Shades, you know."

"But _you_ were born in the richest part of Ankh, and you've had nannies and governesses and tutors -- "

"But I'm a copper's kid, when all's said and done."

"Dad doesn't mind Mister Vimes."

"Mister Vimes minds your dad," answered the boy, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I know it's good-natured, as good-natured as he ever gets, but twenty-five years of impolite cooperation is not exactly grounds for them to be best pals."

"Well, they'll just have to be, that's all," said Sara, looking so like her mother that he did laugh. "At least long enough to get through a wedding ceremony."

There was the click of a match being struck, and a pool of light appeared to their right.

"I hope it's short, then," said Stoneface Vimes, lighting a cigar casually. Sara felt every muscle in Sam's body tense. "Suppose I'll have to dress up in that damnfool gold armour again."

"How long've you been listening, dad?" Sam asked, his mind circling back to his remark about 'as good natured as he ever gets'. 

His father shook out the match and tilted his head slightly, as if considering things. Sara's breath caught in her throat. She wasn't afraid of much; she'd been on assignment in the Shades and hung upside-down from the rafters of the Patrician's Palace to take iconos when she had to. But she was afraid of Sam's father. Very few people weren't, other than her mum and dad.

"Long enough, I think," his father said finally. "You ought to listen to the young lady, Sam. It'd break your mum's heart if you eloped." He tapped the end of his cigar. "Aren't you supposed to ask the father's permission before you get married?"

"I was going to -- " Sam began.

"I wasn't talking to you, Sam," his father said sharply. He looked at Sara with an interested sort of gaze, as if he was just noticing her for the first time. "Sara de Worde. My, my. I should have expected this, I suppose. You were always tagging after Sam when de Worde came up to the house on business. I think...yes. You would have been about three, which would make Sam...seven? Eight? You were crying because you'd been down to the dragon house and there'd been an explosion. Sam had to carry you back."

"I don't remember that," Sam mumbled.

"I do," said Sara softly.

"My son is not and never will be a useless lord. He's a workman. So are you, I think," Vimes continued, as if he hadn't heard them. "He's going to be a Duke someday. Richest man in the city. He's going to be the Commander, if he has the ambition to get that far. Genua will do you good," he added, as an aside to Sam. "Ask for Blintzer, he was trained in Ankh-Morpork, he'll show you the ropes. Now, Sara..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Are your intentions towards my son honourable?"

Sara put her hand to her mouth, covering a smile. "Yes, Mister Vimes."

"And you're not going to break his heart?"

"I wouldn't do that, sir."

"Dad -- " Sam tried, but he was cut off again.

"You're not after him for the Ramkin fortunes?"

"With all due respect, sir, I've got my own."

Vimes grinned a horrible grin. "Yes, the de Worde legacy. Very well. And you intend to start a paper in Genua?"

Sara nodded. The Commander's stare became disconcerting, and she blushed.

"How far along are you?" he asked. Sam blinked.

"Two months," Sara answered. She looked at the younger Vimes. "Sorry, Sam. I was going to tell you, soon as we were married. I wanted to make sure you weren't doing it just to make an honest woman of me."

"Y...m...er..." Sam was obviously trying to form words, but nothing was coming out. "How did _you_ know?" he finally managed, turning to his father.

"A father knows these things," Vimes answered calmly. "Does yours?" he asked Sara.

"Oh, no, sir. No, sir. I don't think, sir. Oh..." Sara looked panicked, now.

"I shouldn't worry. You know, he didn't marry your mum until...well, that's not here nor there. I understand your parents have a quite, oh, how shall I put this. Quite an _energetic_ relationship."

"They always make up afterward," Sara said. Her smile was back, now, and trying gamely to match his. Sam, like a forlorn seagull in a storm, was looking confusedly from one to the other. 

"So I hear. Very well. Good to know Sam's got a healthy interest in women. I was beginning to worry."

" _Dad!_ "

"It's all right, Sam, Sara knows it was a joke." His father stepped back and crossed his arms. "Very well. You have my permission to marry my son. But you're not to elope, mind you. And we'll be out to Genua for the birth. I don't trust my daughter-in-law's safety and my first grandchild's health to those foreign doctors." He looked at his son. "Sara, you'll have to forgive Sam, he's a Vimes and we tend to take a little while to process things like sudden fatherhood."

" _Fatherhood_ ," Sam repeated. 

"And I'd like, if at all possible, to be there when you _do_ tell your father," said Vimes the elder, shaking some ash from the end of his cigar. "That would make an old man extremely happy, Sara."

"I'll try, Mister Vimes."

"Good girl. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go break the news to Sybil. Which will be almost as good as telling de Worde. Try to locate your brain before the end of the night, Sam. I'll see you for patrol in the morning."

Sam had a sudden vision of what he and his father were going to discuss on that patrol, and he winced.

***

"Goodness, Sam," Lady Sybil exclaimed, when he finally arrived home. "I lost all track of time. It's nearly midnight."

"Yes," said her husband, shaking out his greatcoat and draping it over the back of a chair near the smoldering remains of the fire the Boy had lit, some hours previously, in the library fireplace. "Sorry. I had some business to see to."

"I can't remember the last time you got home this late."

"I think Sam was nine."

She laughed. "That's probably right. You look serious, dear. Is something the matter at the Yard?"

"Sort of. One of the officers. Got into a bit of a scrape."

"Oh yes?" she asked, with the politely interested tone of a woman who has listened to her husband's problems for thirty years, and knows the serious from the small. 

"Yes, got a girl in trouble. She's nice enough. You know young Sara de Worde?"

"William's daughter? Of course I do. Oh, the poor girl. I'm sure she can take care of herself, though. Do you suppose he'll take responsibility?"

"I think he will. Stand-up officer."

"Is that why you're home late? You're not the father of every lad in the Watch, you know."

He grinned, suddenly. "Sybil, how do you feel about being a grandmother?"

"Being a what?" she asked, looking up from her breeding books.

"Well, I'm not the father of _every_ lad in the Watch, but I am the father of _one_..." he said, savoring the moment.

"Sam and Sara?"

"I caught them discussing an elopement. Don't worry, I put it out of their heads."

"Sam and _Sara de Worde?_ "

"Sybil, I don't think I've ever seen you this flustered," he said. She put her pen down.

"Our little baby Sam."

"About time, too, I'd say. Sara says she's two months along. She wasn't going to tell him until he married her. Brave woman."

Sybil's face lit up with the biggest smile he'd seen since Sam was born. She stood and crossed to the fire, where he stood, and hugged him.

"You weren't mean to them, were you, Sam?" she asked. 

"Only a little," he said with a grin.

***

The Duke of Ankh might not be the most beloved man in the city -- indeed, in some parts he was hated with a passion -- but he was one of the best-known. His son was relatively well-liked, and generally thought to be a credit to the family. The _Times_ was read by pretty nearly everyone, and nobody had a bad thought of Sara, which was pretty incredible, considering some of the things she'd written in the paper.

So there was, if not dancing in the streets, then at the very least a carnival atmosphere, when the _Times_ published the brief, happy clacks from Genua:

VIMES-DEWORDE FAMILY PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE BIRTH OF DAUGHTER DEIRDRE STOP MOTHER AND DAUGHTER HEALTHY STOP WILLIAM DE WORDE FAINTED STOP REGARDS SAM'L VIMES

It is not certain that William ever forgave his son-in-law's father.


End file.
